The Devil Smiles
by rikkucheerio
Summary: Goren AU. More from my mirror universe in which Goren is a serial killer. Written for the lyrics prompt: Satan's sitting there, he's smiling.


You can hear him. You hear his breathing; he's nearby. It's so quiet, you think you can even hear his heart beat. Or maybe it's your own heart you hear. You can't see, but you know you're stuffed into a corner, probably a corner of a room. You can feel the two sides and the space between them against your back. You can hear dripping somewhere, further away than the sounds of his breath. Wherever you are smells musty and reminds you of a basement. The vertical surfaces that your bare arms brush against are rough like concrete or cinder blocks. The space is excruciatingly hot. Your shirt, which--unknown to you--is torn and filthy, sticks to the sweat rolling down your skin. Only Hell is this hot. All you can do is sit and listen to his breathing--the breathing of evil--and wish he would bring you some water.

Because you know he isn't going to let you go.

"How long are you going to keep me here?" you ask, hoping he'll give you a real answer. Your voice sounds alien in your ears; you haven't used it in a long while and your throat is dry. Your tongue sticks to the back of your throat and you cough.

"Until I'm done with you," he says. His voice is smooth, one you might've trusted if you had met under different circumstances. His voice sounds familiar to you. It brings up images of a tall man with sad brown eyes and a beard. You remember his eyes vividly because there was something different about them but at the time, you couldn't figure out what. You forgot since then, his weathered features lost to the many faces you've seen since. You remember him telling you about his kids and his wife. You remember thinking he was a nice guy.

You straighten your legs out, trying to find a more comfortable position and the soles of your shoes scrape on the loose bits of material on the floor. It's the same stuff, plaster or something, that crunches when he walks. You can always tell where he is by listening to his shoes crunch in the debris. So far, all he's done is come and go. He hasn't harmed you...much. Your wrists ache and your fingers are slippery. You think they're sweaty like the rest of your body, but in reality, they're slick with your blood. The tape he used to bind your wrists is cutting into and pulling at the skin.

"What are you going to do to me?" you ask.

This time, he doesn't respond.

If you could see, if your eyes weren't hindered by a blindfold, you would see that Satan is sitting there smiling at you. His eyes are roaming your body, devouring you completely. He's calculating and mapping out where to place his cuts. He doesn't want you to die just yet. He wants you to suffer as long as possible. You hear the ruffle of clothing--he's moving around--and then a soft 'snick' noise. Your heart leaps into your throat and you wiggle around, hoping to move whatever is covering your eyes. It's all in vain.

"How long have I been here?" you ask frantically, trying to distract him. Distracting him means delaying whatever he has planned. With your eyes covered, you've lost track of the passage of time. To you, it feels like only hours.

"Days," is his only reply. He moves again; he moves closer to you and now you can smell his cologne. His hand is on your cheek, brushing and caressing it like a lover's touch. There's no love there. It's pure hunger. Hunger for control, for dominance, for blood.

He owns you.

That noise you heard was the sound of a three-inch blade coming out. You don't realize that's what it was until you feel the cold steel pressed into your belly. He hasn't applied pressure yet. You're wondering what he's waiting for.

"Hm...tell me, nursing student, what happens if I make an incision..." he applies the pressure on the knife, cutting deep into your belly, "here?" The knife is razor sharp and his cut burns like a searing hot blade through butter. Your voice, which was so shaky before, escapes in a scream from the bottom of your lungs. The blackness you'd grown accustomed to flashes to a brilliant white that grows in intensity the longer he draws the knife across your skin. You're unable--and unwilling--to answer his question.

He presses harder, cutting deeper, making you scream louder. "Tell me!" he shouts, his breath on your cheek. The sound of your screams masked the ruffle of clothing as he moved in closer.

"The-," you swallow the nausea and the pain in an effort to find your voice again, "the bowels; you'll nick the bowels."

You can't see it, but his smile grows. He knows you're right. He runs his other hand along the ragged, exposed edge of the cut he'd just made. The pain sends you through the roof. Your screams echo through the building, piercing your own ears. His long fingers slide across your slippery skin, ending their journey in his lap. You're thankful for the pause. You're trying to concentrate on anything but the slice in your abdomen. The white hot pain is pulling your thoughts and not giving you the focus you need. You're still "seeing" that brilliant white light.

Beside you, he presses his hand into the crotch of his pants. You can hear his breath once again, harder and quicker. Or maybe it's still your own breathing you hear. He grabs your taped hands and jerks you closer, forcing your hand open, pressing your palm into the hard fabric. The sudden movement jars the slice in your belly, the raw edges and nerve endings firing again.

You scream loudly.

He moans.


End file.
